


Can't

by walkthegale



Series: Writing Prompts for Days [9]
Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: F/F, Ficlet, Healing, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-29
Updated: 2020-05-29
Packaged: 2021-03-02 19:20:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 849
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24441982
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/walkthegale/pseuds/walkthegale
Summary: "Look at me - just breathe, okay?"
Relationships: Beauregard Lionett/Yasha
Series: Writing Prompts for Days [9]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1719034
Comments: 6
Kudos: 118





	Can't

**Author's Note:**

> Written for a tumblr prompt: https://walkthegale.tumblr.com/post/619469577909338112/proooompt-88-see-now-what-that-so-bad-with

Beau kills the dude who threw the fireball. Smashes her fist straight into his stupid face and feels the bone beneath shatter before he crumples. She almost stays to hit him again, even though she’s sure he’s dead - she probably would have, but Yasha’s slumped over by the wall and Beau has to get to her.

She darts over, skidding to a halt on her knees next to Yasha, who has curled in on herself in a way that doesn’t look entirely natural.

Beau’s first instinct is to look around, frantic, like Jester or Cad might just have appeared behind her, but they’re still outside and she’s still in an empty gods-damned room, alone with Yasha, who is definitely still breathing, but there’s a jagged quality to it that Beau doesn’t like. She rarely wishes she had magic these days, but she’d give a lot for a message spell right now.

“Ok,” she says, to fill the silence as much as anything. “Fuck. Yasha, I can’t carry you. You’re going to have to get up.”

She doesn’t expect a response, not really, but then Yasha moves, lifting her head just a little, her eyes hazy and unfocused.

“Beau,” she says, her voice rough, breaking. “Beau, I can’t…”

Beau can see, as Yasha’s body unfolds just a little, the very edges of a lot of burns, places where her clothes are scorched black and stuck to her skin. There’s a smell of charred hair and fabric and flesh, and Beau feels sick.

Their friends are outside and she won’t leave Yasha here, not even long enough to get help, not here in this fucking shithole where who the fuck knows what horrors might stumble across her in Beau’s absence. There’s no choice. Yasha has no choice but to get the fuck up.

Beau positions herself in a crouch next to her. “You can,” she says, low and fierce, leaving no room for argument. “You will. Get up, come on, I’ll help you,” She reaches out.

There’s a long, silent moment. Beau, her heart in her mouth and her arm outstretched, waits. And then, treacle-slow, Yasha reaches back, shaking with effort, and takes hold of Beau’s outstretched hand, her grip so very much weaker than Beau has ever known it.

**“Look at me,”** she says, squeezing Yasha’s fingers in her own, fighting to keep her voice steady. **“Just breathe, okay.”**

And Yasha does.

Beau will never have the faintest fucking idea, afterwards, how between the two of them they got Yasha to her feet. She barely wants to touch her, in case she makes the pain worse, but she pushes past it, wedging her shoulder under Yasha’s arm, taking as much of her weight as she can bear, propping her up.

She doesn’t know, either, how they take the first step, nor the next. Doesn’t know how they keep from falling. Doesn’t know how Yasha stays conscious, her every breath laboured, gasping. Beau can feel Yasha trembling, can feel damp seeping through her own clothing and she can’t tell if it’s sweat or blood or what.

Another step. And another. They inch their way to freedom. To their friends. Beau loses all sense of time. The journey that she could have made alone in less than a minute takes them together what might as well have been a thousand years.

Another step. A stumble that Beau barely manages to catch without them both going down. Another step. Beau’s muscles scream as Yasha sways and leans against her even harder. Another step. Another.

And finally, fucking finally, there’s a door, and if it’s locked, Beau thinks she’ll probably just lie down here and give up, but it isn’t locked. It opens and then there’s light. There’s light, and they’re outside, and she can see a bright flash of blue in the distance that can only be Jester. She summons every ounce of strength she has left in her and yells, wordless, for help.

Next to her, Yasha hits the ground hard, and Beau has time to see Jester break into a run in their direction before she sinks to her knees herself. **“See, now,”** Beau says, weakly. **“Was that so bad?”**

Yasha makes a huffing noise that might have been a strained sort of half a laugh, maybe. Beau takes it as a win.

Yasha’s face is scrunched up, and she’s even paler than usual, with a greyish tinge, her forehead beaded with sweat. Beau doesn’t think, just reaches out and moves the singed ends of Yasha’s hair out of her eyes, her fingers brushing gently against unburned skin.

“Yasha,” she says, quietly enough that she can deny it if she needs to. “Yasha, please.” The barest whisper, almost a prayer.

Beau closes her eyes, the tips of her fingers lingering against Yasha’s cheek, and when she opens them again, Jester is there, the air already beginning to spark and glow with a healing spell.

Letting out a long breath, Beau flops onto her back and stares up at a heavy, cloud-strewn sky. Somewhere, in the far distance, there’s a storm brewing.


End file.
